


The Starry Night

by Popcorn_Lover



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-29 00:06:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8468239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Popcorn_Lover/pseuds/Popcorn_Lover
Summary: Sometimes the brightest stars are those that we can't see.





	1. Spicy Ginger Tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock BBC.

“I understand that you were initially appointed to head a project but unfortunately it was aborted due to the hospital’s budget cutting. I can help you but on one condition. You are to regularly update me in regards to the daily activities of Sherlock Holmes.” The British Government did not even attempt to hide the boredom from his expression and voice. It was as if he repeated similar words to a lot of people before and Mycroft expected the same outcome this time round for he assumed that she was no different from them.

“You…are asking me to keep tabs on Sherlock? And if I don’t do as you say?” Molly Hooper asked the older man with a cautious tone and upon hearing her question; Mycroft smirked to himself. A handful of them did try to display their supposed bravery and loyalty to his brother but what they did not realise was that how easily their ‘bravery and loyalty’ disappeared with a simple threat.

“You would be finding a new job.” Mycroft finally lifted his eyes and stared at the pathologist hard to demonstrate the seriousness of his promise. The light in Molly’s eyes never diminished as she smiled kindly at the British Government.

“I wish I have a brother like you. You can always come and find me at St Bart’s then we can talk about Sherlock. Of course, my information would be free of charge. Don’t worry; I’ll do my best to keep an eye on him. I’ll leave first if there is nothing else? I still have two more autopsies to perform.” It would be an understatement to say that the British Government was caught off guard by the turn of events and he barely withheld his surprise from showing. Rare as it is, the pathologist made quite an impression on him.

 

* * *

 

Tonight could definitely be considered as the most terrible date Molly ever encountered but the pathologist was not one to hold on to negativity for long. However it would seem that the heavens did not want her to forget it just yet when without any warning, it began to rain heavily. Those who brought umbrellas with them, rain is the more common weather element in London anyway, opened theirs and continued walking while those who didn’t, for a variety of reasons, darted to the nearest shelter except for Molly.

According to the pathologist’s estimation, the tube station was not very far from where she was and holding the bag over her head, Molly picked up her pace but the rain still managed to find the pathologist. Under the cloak of the heavy rain, Molly did not notice an unmarked car that stopped nearby and a man wearing a three-pieced suit stepped out of the vehicle. While trying to avoid a rather large puddle, the pathologist suddenly felt none of the rain’s merciless attack on her anymore.

“Mycroft, what are you doing here?” Curious, Molly asked with a small smile. “Hope I’m not too late in coming to the lady’s rescue?” The British Government did not answer her question, instead he merely extended his arm towards the pathologist to better shield her from the downpour. “Allow me to send you home, Molly.” Mycroft gestured to the vehicle parked beside them.

“Oh no, its fine. I’m just a stone’s throw away from the tube station.” Molly waved her hand, not wanting to further trouble the British Government. Mycroft tilted his head, “I’m sure you would not want me to get reprimanded by my mother for not being a gentleman. My back is getting uncomfortably wet as we speak, Molly.” As Mycroft expected, the pathologist became flustered at what he said and immediately acceded to the request even if it was only to keep him out of the rain.

Once inside the car, Mycroft instructed his driver to switch on the heater and turned to look at Molly who was trying to occupy the least amount of space as possible. “It’s alright to lean back and be comfortable, Molly. You have my word that the car seats would not be damaged,” The British Government spoke seriously but his eyes revealed the humour behind his words. Before Molly could reply, the vehicle slowed down in front of a red light. The momentum coupled with her wet clothes and the fact that she was sitting literally on the edge of the seat triggered the inevitable from happening.

The pathologist prepared herself for the impact of slamming into the front passenger seat but she was pulled back to safety just in time. Molly’s breathing quickened as she saw a close-up of Mycroft’s face. The pathologist then clumsily removed herself from his embrace with a burning face. The sound of rain hitting against the car was a convenient excuse for their awkward silence that followed after. “Here,” the British Government gave his handkerchief to Molly. “Thank you.” She nodded shyly and wiped her face with it as the silence between them resumed.

Clutching Mycroft’s handkerchief, Molly bravely sneaked a glance at him and was partly relieved to find that the British Government did not seem overly bothered by the incident. After all, she did not want Mycroft to feel uncomfortable due to her being a klutz. Like Sherlock, the pathologist considered him as her friend too. Mycroft would often come to St. Bart’s to discuss cases with his brother and he would also talk to Molly if he had the spare time. She always enjoyed such times because the Holmes brothers are good conversationalists when they choose to.  

By the time they reached her flat, the rain had ceased and the pair stood on the pavement. “Thank you for the ride home, Mycroft,” and Molly held up the handkerchief, “I’ll wash and return it to you soon.” Leaning on his umbrella, the British Government replied, “You are welcome, Molly. Goodnight.” The pathologist tip-toed and kissed him on the cheek before disappearing into the building, “Goodnight, Mycroft.”

The British Government instinctively inhaled the distinct smell of the post rain as the sensation of Molly’s lips on his cheek lingered on, forcing him to acknowledge the acceleration of his heart rate. With her heart still pounding, the pathologist leaned against the door and gazed at the handkerchief.

 

* * *

 

The pathologist made a loud sneeze and rubbed her nose that was starting to resemble like Rudolph the reindeer. The Holmes brothers paused their discussion and looked at her. Noticing the stares directed at her, Molly apologised abashedly, “Sorry about that,” yet her sniffles continued. After the discussion had ended, the consulting detective recalled that he still has an experiment in another lab and went to inspect the results. Sherlock made a detour to the cafeteria before coming back to the main lab. Mycroft also left the room, only to return first with a cup of ginger tea.

Engrossed in her own work, Molly was naturally surprised when the British Government appeared by her side and passed her the tea. “It is to my understanding that this would help with your cold.” The pathologist accepted it with gratitude, “Thank you. Oh, I had already washed your handkerchief but I forgotten to bring it with me today.” Mycroft shook his head to reassure Molly, “There’s no rush in returning it.”

Sherlock stood outside of the lab and saw the smiles the pair gave to each other; they probably did not even know how sweet of a scene they were effectively portraying. Looking at the ginger tea he was holding just made Sherlock feel all the more worse. Mycroft was always a bloody step ahead of him. Putting back his mask, the consulting detective re-entered the lab while causally sipping the tea.

“You would not like the taste of ginger tea, Sherlock. You never did since you were a child.” The British Government warned him in a big-brother manner and Sherlock mentally cursed at Mycroft as he winced from the spiciness of the tea. As usual, his brother was right. The consulting detective repeated the internal curse to suppress his anger. Concerned, Molly questioned, “Sherlock, why are you drinking ginger tea? Are you feeling unwell?”

The sincerity of her tone pricked his non-existent heart and to deflect the pain, “I’m experimenting what are the possible alternatives for coffee. Lately I have felt too dependent on it, not a wise habit I believe. Unless you would wish for me to revert to drugs, brother mine?” With what little information he had at hand, Mycroft connected the dots but the British Government found no will in him to challenge his brother with the new knowledge he had gained.

“If you really don’t like it, why don’t I make you some coffee instead?” Sherlock really did not like the ginger tea, too spicy for his taste and strangely, bitter too. “No need, Molly.” He should have cut off this addiction long time ago and he needed to start now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to my exams, it's been a while since I posted a new story so please pardon my rusty writing skills and hopefully you readers would still enjoy it!


	2. Sweet Cake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock BBC.

The moment Molly entered her flat; she sensed that something was amiss. Glancing around for a weapon, the pathologist picked up a vase and ventured carefully into the kitchen where rustling sounds could be heard. Now that Sherlock’s ‘dead’, she was told to be safe than sorry. “Is that the best weapon you could find, Molly?” Sherlock remarked painfully and she quickly put down the vase. Kneeling beside the consulting detective, Molly frowned at his abdominal injury. “This looks serious; I better call Mycroft for help.”

Sherlock grabbed her wrist, “I did not come here for him. You can stitch me up,” and scowled when he tried to push himself into a sitting position. “Don’t move. I’ll go get the medical box,” Molly pressed a hand on his shoulder and rushed to her bedroom. The pathologist returned with an armful of medical supplies and spread them on the kitchen floor.

Molly lifted Sherlock’s shirt and started cleaning the wound to prevent infection from setting in. Every hiss emitted from him, no matter how soft, she would stop for a brief second before continuing with utmost gentleness. The consulting detective watched Molly whose brows were furrowed in full concentration and he wished for time to stop right here.

With a mind of its own, Sherlock’s hand rose to caress her hair but he stopped himself, letting his hand hang awkwardly in the air instead. She had reduced him to a pathetic fool. “Did you become a pathologist because you are terrible in your stitching skills therefore it’s best for you if your patients are all dead so they can’t complain about it?”

The pathologist glared at him. How dare he criticized her stitching skills when here she was, trying to save him and worried sick about his condition? “Do you want to keep on complaining or do you want to be like my other patients, dead?” Sherlock’s low chuckle rumbled from his chest and the absurdity of their conversation brought a smile on Molly’s face that says ‘I give up’ but it wasn’t true for she would never give up on the consulting detective.

Others might think that Sherlock was only using her for gaining access to the morgue and having an assistant for his experiments but whatever the truth was, Molly helped him for one reason and one reason only, because she genuinely cares about him otherwise she would not had aided in faking his death or even tried to stop Moriarty by making herself as the bait which obviously failed.

_“I had a great time with you Molly but if the Iceman wants to play, I prefer to play with him face-to-face and not through an intermediary.”_

“Done. Can you get up?” Molly put his arm around her shoulders and placed her arm behind his back to support the consulting detective while standing up. Their height difference formed a comical sight but Sherlock swallowed his laughter when he saw how serious Molly’s face was. If the consulting detective was honest, he was not that badly injured but Sherlock could not resist leaning on her ever so slightly.

Sherlock obediently followed the pathologist to her room and sat on the bed as instructed. Molly opened one of the drawers that contained his clothes and took out a shirt and a pair of pants. Walking back to him, she asked, “Can you change by yourself?” Mistaking his hesitation as a no, Molly removed the consulting detective’s bloodied shirt and froze. Her hand reached out and lightly traced the scars on him. Some of them were old and some were recent ones. Seeing the pathologist’s expression, Sherlock seized her trembling hand and said, “It’s okay, Molly.”        

She held his hand tightly and the pathologist’s head lowered so he could not see her face, “It’s n-not okay, Sherlock. John’s in pieces, Mrs Hudson has tears in her eyes whenever she talks about you and Greg is just consumed in guilt while all I can do is to comfort them with lies. There were times when I even asked if you need any help in your experiments and the lab was empty. For an instant I really thought you were gone and I wanted to cry then I remembered that you faked your death and I wanted to cry even more!”

Some of Molly’s tears landed on their clasped hands and every tear scalded Sherlock’s skin as the pain radiated to his chest. The consulting detective could think of no other way to ease that ache except to tug on Molly’s hand and hugged her. He alternated between stroking the back of her head and rubbing circles on her back until the pathologist’s cries subsided. Embarrassed, Molly made a beeline to the bathroom to wash up while the consulting detective changed into the clean set of clothes.

She came back and neither mentioned about it, some things are best left unsaid. “What are you doing?” Molly was about to carry her pillow and a spare blanket to the living room. “You are injured, Sherlock. I can’t ask you to sleep on the sofa. Call me if you need anything.” Sherlock placed a hand on the pathologist’s arm to stop her. “I’m not a gentleman but I do understand the concept of sharing. The bed is big enough to accommodate both of us.”

Molly considered the consulting detective’s proposition, “You are not a blanket-hog, are you?” Sherlock gave an offended look and headed out to brush his teeth. When he returned, the pathologist was already lying on her side of the bed and Sherlock’s eyes softened at the sight of Molly in peaceful slumber. If questioned, the consulting detective could not pinpoint the specific day when he fell in love with Molly Hooper but it could be when they met for the first time and she greeted him so cheerfully that he blinked for a few seconds before walking away.

However Sherlock knew exactly when he realised that he loved her. It was during the infamous Christmas scene. Everyone including John believed that the present was for him except it wasn’t. How wrong they were, so very wrong, the consulting detective thought as he recollected the event with a bitter smile hanging loosely on his lips. Stopping the replay of that Christmas scene in his mind palace, Sherlock went to bed. Today he had been sentimental enough.

Sherlock was still half-asleep when his hand searched blindly for the blanket. The consulting detective finally found it and was about to retrieve the blanket when it was abruptly pulled out of his reach. Annoyed, Sherlock turned and saw Molly covering herself from head to toe with it. “And _you_ asked me if I’m a blanket-hog,” Sherlock rolled his eyes and mumbled.

 

* * *

 

The British Government checked his phone every now and then when the car moved through the streets of London. Mycroft began to worry as Molly had yet to reply to his message but the information he received twenty minutes ago indicated that the pathologist was safe and in her flat. Tonight was supposed to be ‘cake-tasting day’ where Molly would bake a cake of her choice then Mycroft would rate according to its appearance and taste. Needless to say, he would always give the pathologist high scores under both categories.

Mycroft was about to leave his office when a last-minute international crisis came up. Luckily the matter was not too serious and three hours later; he was making his way over to Molly’s flat. When he finally reached his destination, the British Government suddenly hesitated as he did inform Molly that he would be late and she should not wait for him. Alone in the backseat of the vehicle, Mycroft questioned himself mockingly, “Since when did I become so indecisive?” and he knew very well the reason behind this rare moment of uncertainty.  

Adjusting his suit after he alighted, the British Government saw the lights in Molly’s living room and went inside the building. Knock. No response. Knock knock. Still no response. Until Sherlock is back, Molly would be in constant danger for her part in his brother’s ‘death’. Preparing for the worst, Mycroft slowly opened the door and his shoulders sagged in relief at finding the pathologist sound asleep on the couch with the telly showing reruns of Doctor Who. The knowledge that she was waiting for him filled his chest with a warm feeling.    

Mycroft turned off the telly and carried Molly into her bedroom so she could better enjoy her sleep. Moonlight spilled into the room and he observed the pathologist’s sleeping form with such tenderness never seen before by others but the brightness of his eyes did not last when the thought of the intricate relationship between the three of them entered the British Government’s mind. Regardless, the priority would be to ensure Sherlock’s safe return and the rest could be discussed much later. Mycroft usually does not run away from a battle, aside from this one when the opponent is his own baby brother.    

The British Government exited her bedroom and proceeded to eat the slice of cake that Molly prepared in advance for him. Mycroft left a note on the dining table and it said, ‘I rate last night’s cake 8.5 out of 10 for both its appearance and taste. Please accept my sincere apologies for being late. I look forward in seeing what sort of heavenly sweet treats you would come up with for next week.’ He scratched Toby’s chin, “I trust you would take great care of your mistress, Mr Toby?” and the cat meowed in return.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can say I know next to nothing about first-aid so forgive my medical inaccuracies. Still, please enjoy!


	3. Salty Tears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock BBC.

“Sherlock, what was today about?” Molly asked as the pair made their way down the stairs. “Saying thank you. “ Turning to her, the consulting detective explained. “For what?” Sherlock had returned to London for some time now and his name was subsequently cleared but John was still mad at his best friend for keeping the truth from him though the pathologist knew that he would eventually forgive Sherlock. “Everything you did for me.” Molly smiled softly when she replied, “It’s okay. It was my pleasure,” but the consulting detective would not allow her selflessness be written off as a mere ‘it’s okay’, “No, I mean it, Molly.”

The consulting detective then took a step towards her, “Moriarty slipped up. He made a mistake. Because the one person he thought didn’t matter at all to me was the one person that mattered the most. You made it all possible.” Sherlock could still remember the night when he asked for Molly’s help, how vulnerable his state of mind was yet at the same time, how calm he felt in the pathologist’s presence.

“My favourite artist is Van Gogh. I’m not only fascinated by his brilliant paintings but more importantly, the man behind the creation of those masterpieces. After I learnt of his story, I was so angry. His talent was not duly acknowledged when he was alive. He died not knowing what a great artist he was and I always thought if his tragic end could be reversed had someone, anyone told him how wonderful his paintings were and what a genius he was. The world he lived in let him down, hurt him even and I didn’t want the same thing to happen to you, Sherlock.”

During his lifetime, Van Gogh’s works were underappreciated by others but the painter was also tormented by his mental illness so Sherlock could not say for sure if his suicide could truly be prevented. Similarly, the consulting detective could not guarantee that he would marry, have children and ‘lived-happily-ever-after’ yet Sherlock believed that whenever he replayed Molly’s words to himself, he would be reminded that in this vast world, someone who he cares about, in return cares about him too.

“I hope you’ll be very happy, Molly Hooper. You deserve it.” Afraid that his hands could not resist the temptation in touching her, the consulting detective placed them behind his back. With concealed restraint on himself, Sherlock stepped closer and kissed the pathologist’s cheek. As if she understood something important at that precise moment, Molly wordlessly followed Sherlock out of the building and watched him leave before walking off in the opposite direction.  

 

* * *

 

The pathologist was about to leave for work when her phone rang. Molly answered the call and a shiver instantaneously spread throughout her entire body. “Hello, Miss Hooper, you do not know me but you must know my boss, Jim Moriarty? You were one of the few people that he actually liked and Jim’s last wish was for me to present you a gift on his behalf. Kindly leave your residence and you would find two cabs parked outside waiting for you.”

Molly while listening to the man, was trying to think of ways to contact the Holmes brothers but, “And of course, don’t do anything foolish, Miss Hooper. Someone might just die due to your reckless actions,” the deep voice warned so for now, the pathologist decided to do as she was told and walked out of the building to where the two cars were located. “Now that’s a good girl. The gift that Jim wanted you to have is one of the Holmes boys so you need to choose between them. One can’t be too greedy right?”

The man snickered, “The cab on your right would send you straight to the arms of the Iceman and the one on your left would bring you to the doorstep of the Virgin. Choose one and the other would die. If you don’t decide within the next minute, both of them would die. If you try to do anything besides boarding the cab, they would also die. Your choice, Miss Hooper?” There was a possibility that he was merely bluffing but what if the threat was real where they somehow managed to devise a way to implement Moriarty’s twisted plan?

Molly’s mind was blank, how could she choose between Mycroft and Sherlock? “Time’s up, Miss Hooper. Make your decision _now_.” With a hollow heart, the pathologist got onto one of the cabs and both vehicles drove off. All of her thoughts were scattered and she was unable to focus properly yet the man continued to speak to Molly, “Interesting choice, Miss Hooper. Before Jim died, he told me that for his idea to work, with the degree of your loyalty akin to a puppy and your Mother Theresa complex, I would need to threaten the boys’ lives and not yours.”

The pathologist’s fear was replaced with anger like she never felt before and the intensity of it burned the very core of her heart, “There’s a special place for you and Moriarty in hell.” Thoroughly entertained, the man laughed, “This was Jim’s last wish and my last order. Once this plan has been executed successfully, I will meet Jim and send him your regards.” The call ended with an ominous click.

Ignoring the nauseous sensation caused by the man’s hysterical laughter, Molly rushed out of the cab before it came to a complete stop and entered the flat without bothering to knock. Shaking, the pathologist caught hold of Sherlock’s arm, “Mycroft…he’s in danger. Go and save him…” After giving a brief explanation to the consulting detective about the situation, Sherlock called Lestrade and wanted Molly to stay in 221B where it’s safer for her but she was adamant in following him. Looking at her with an indecipherable expression, he yielded.  

 

* * *

 

Despite working in St Bart’s for years now, Molly still could not get used to the bright lights and antiseptic smell of the hospital ward. It only brought back bad memories of her past and the sight of Mycroft in hospital just created new bad memories for the pathologist that would probably take an even longer time for her to let go of because she was the reason why he was injured, by choosing Sherlock over him. Molly thought she would never experience greater pain than the day her father passed away and the pathologist was proven wrong.  

“Mycroft cares about you. You might cringe but he loves you very much, Sherlock and I know he would make the same decision as I did if he were to choose for himself. He would give up his life for you; he could never bear to see his baby brother got hurt.” Molly whispered in a broken voice that accurately reflected the state of her heart.

Sherlock turned away from the sight of the British Government who, in his heart, represented a big and sturdy tree that could protect him from all sorts of evil but now the only indication that Mycroft was still alive were the sounds and graphs made by medical machines, displaying his vital signs. “He’s a fool too, like you,” the consulting detective spoke severely but Molly did not blame him. The person who he looked up to and depended on has temporary fallen. “Mycroft once told me that your loss would break his heart.”

The anger that Sherlock was trying his hardest to contain spun out of control. He was mad at Molly for taking the responsibility for the incident when it was not at all her fault. The consulting detective was also mad at Sebastian Moran for masterminding the attack on his brother and what a pity that the man already killed himself by the time they found him. Most of all, Sherlock was mad at himself. “And seeing him like this does not break yours?”

Sherlock sighed quietly at the pain shown in Molly’s eyes and offered to send her home. During the ride to Molly’s flat, neither was eager to break the silence. Like a lost soul, she muttered a “thank you” and closed the door. Staring at the closed door, the consulting detective all of the sudden felt an unknown fear. Fear that Mycroft would remain like this forever, fear that Molly would also remain like this forever.

The pathologist wandered around her flat, unsure of what to do when a movement caught her eye. Toby was playing with a cloth and upon a closer look, Molly realised it was Mycroft’s handkerchief. In her haste to get back the item, Toby scratched her and ran away. Disregarding the superficial wound, the pathologist touched the embroidered initials M.H. on the handkerchief with a faraway look as events of that rainy night bombarded Molly’s mind relentlessly and overcame by powerful emotions, she burst into tears.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps readers who also watch Doctor Who would get the reference I made in the first part of this chapter. It was one of my favourite episodes and I once watched Benedict Cumberbatch played the role of Vincent Van Gogh so I thought to myself that I must somehow incorporate this man into my story.
> 
> Any thoughts or opinions on whether this story should end with Mollcroft or Sherlolly?


	4. Sorrow Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock BBC.

“Miss Hooper,” the British Government greeted her in a brisk manner and left the morgue after the talk with his brother. Molly did not even have the time to say hello back. Irritated by the brave front she was putting up, the question slipped out of Sherlock’s mouth before he could take it back. “Regretted your decision?” Months had passed and Mycroft recovered from his injuries but suffered a most inconvenient after effect, short-term amnesia, losing of recent memories including those that he shared with her. “No,” was Molly’s soft but firm reply. “Still a fool then,” the pathologist gave a faint smile at Sherlock’s response.

The consulting detective hated that smile for it gnawed at his heart. In a couple of big strides, Sherlock closed the distance between them and studied her like she was an experiment. “Are you happy, Molly Hooper?” She looked back at him with clear eyes, “I’m content.” He tucked the pathologist’s hair behind her ear, “That’s not enough. Instead of getting a pitiful greeting from him and watching him walk past you, you do not wish to return to how it’s like in the past? Don’t insult my intelligence by lying to me, Molly.” The consulting detective glanced at the security camera, making sure that they were standing right in front of it.

“Mycroft would be talking to you soon,” Sherlock foretold the future with confidence. “How would you know?” Molly questioned and the consulting detective’s expression became intense as his eyes turned a shade darker. “He would after he saw this.” Sherlock gently pulled the pathologist towards him and in a swift move, captured her lips. The consulting detective ended the kiss before he lost himself in it. When they broke apart, the pathologist’s stunned face ignited a smile from Sherlock that was carefully constructed to appear carefree and when he walked away from Molly, his smile weakened but the consulting detective continued on like nothing was wrong.

The British Government’s phone received a message and he played the video clip taken from the surveillance system of St Bart’s. Even with the lack of sounds, the visuals were more than enough to provide adequate information in deciphering what took place in the morgue minutes ago. “Anthea, kindly invite Miss Hooper to the Diogenes Club. It would seem that we have much to discuss.”

 

* * *

 

“You lost weight,” the pathologist blurted out and her face went crimson after recognizing what she had said to him. Molly had gone over countless of times what her first words to Mycroft would be and this was not what the pathologist had planned, nothing close to the rehearsals performed in her mind. Well, at least the ice was broken, kind of.  

The British Government crossed his long legs with a hint of discomfort and Molly shifted nervously in her seat. Mycroft cleared his throat, “Right, I recently changed my diet and it works wonders,” but she interrupted him, “You don’t need to be on a diet. You were always in good shape and still are.” It was not the conversation Molly was hoping for nonetheless it was a start. Unable to control herself, the pathologist asked in a small voice, “How...how are your injuries?”

“I am well now, Miss Hooper. Thank you for your concern.” The formality of his answer callously burst Molly’s bubble and the pathologist struggled to hold up her smile. “The reason you are here is that one of the cameras recorded your kiss with Sherlock. Is there anything you would like to inform me about, Miss Hooper?” Molly unconsciously chewed her lip when the kiss was mentioned and misinterpreting her body language, the British Government incorrectly deduced that she was recalling fond memories of his brother.

The arrival of said conclusion hardened Mycroft’s eyes and his blatant hostility towards the pathologist drilled another hole into her already battered heart. Molly then came to a realisation that no amount of explanation would change their situation and perhaps it’s best to leave things as it is. Yet if Molly were to choose again, she would still make the same decision and carry the heavy but sweet burden of their memories by herself with no regrets so long the Holmes brothers are safe.    

“I was a year two medical student when my dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer. I went to the library and read every medical book that I could borrow. How silly of me to think that I could find the cure to his illness. In the end, he was so sick I stopped school to take care of him 24/7 and six months later, he passed away. I would like to say that he went peacefully but he didn’t. Till his very last breath, my dad was in agony though he would only show it when he thought there was no one else and I would stand by the door, helplessly watching how afraid and sad he was.”

Molly took a deep breath, “I couldn’t save my dad and from that day on, I couldn’t face the thought of dealing with the possibility of death which totally went against the requirements of a doctor so when I returned to my studies, I changed my major to pathology and after I graduated, I straightaway accepted the offer from St Bart’s. In a bizarre way, I could handle death, just not people that were dying and what better job for me than to work in a place where all of my patients were already dead. I’m not a very brave person, am I?”  

The atmosphere was charged with hidden emotions when Mycroft asked without malice, “Why did you tell me this?” The pathologist shrugged her shoulders, “Because I never told anyone about it before.” Molly went into a contemplative silence until she stood up from her chair, “I care about Sherlock, a lot but it’s purely platonic. Goodnight, Mycroft.” As she exited the Diogenes Club, the British Government shut his eyes and murmured, “Goodnight, Molly.”

 

* * *

 

Some more months later and nothing had changed. Impatient, Sherlock decided to confront Mycroft during their game of Operation. “Did any medical teams express their desire to document your condition for research purposes?” The British Government was wholly focused on taking the man’s heart out, “Don’t cheat, Sherlock.” He smirked and propped his elbows on his knees. “I’m not. I’m just trying to have a friendly conversation here. Personally, I have not come across such a specific amnesia like yours. According to my observations, you seemed to remember everything with the sole exception of anything relating to Molly.”

The buzzer sounded and the British Government cursed, “Oh bugger.” Sherlock consoled him, “Oopsie! Can’t handle a broken heart, how _very_ telling.” With his head still looking down at the game set, Mycroft advised his brother coolly, “Don’t be smart.” The consulting detective’s smirk widened as he countered, “Tell that to yourself. This will be my sixth win in a row.” The British Government corrected him on the spot without a second thought. “You are only on your way to a third consecutive win, brother mine.”  

Pleased with himself, Sherlock sat back and pretended to be surprised, “I thought you suffered short-term amnesia?” Mycroft dropped the tweezers and the Holmes brothers started an impromptu staring contest. “She did it for you, saving me. Everything she did, it was all and only for you. You are many things, Mycroft but not a hypocrite. Don’t act like you resented Molly for her choice. Go and find her, she’s still waiting for you, she always will be.”

The pathologist was walking to the tube station and the rain began to fall heavily onto the ground. To Molly, it felt like déjà vu of that fateful night however this time, there would be no gentleman to her rescue. Dismissing the thought, she resumed her journey and allowed the cold rain to seep into her clothes for it was a rather refreshing experience. Molly tilted her head towards the sky, enjoying how the raindrops trickled down her face when she accidently bumped into a man. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t see where I was going…Mycroft, what are you doing here?”

The British Government’s eyes shone with an unidentified emotion, “Hope I’m not too late in coming to the lady’s rescue again?” and extended his arm towards Molly to better shield her from the rain. Under the protection of his umbrella, the pair was momentarily isolated from the boisterous world. All Molly could think of was to take out Mycroft’s handkerchief that she always carried around with her and handed it to him, “I never had the proper chance to give this back to you.”

Mycroft covered the pathologist’s hand that was holding the handkerchief. “Keep it. It’s now yours, Molly. Allow me to send you home?” She nodded in consent and without letting go of her hand; the British Government assisted the lady who possessed his heart in boarding the awaiting car.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to follow my instinct. In one of my fics, I mentioned that I was biased towards Mycroft but I wavered because of Sherlock for I will always have a soft spot for him. I also fancied a thought that whatever Sherlock is, Mycroft is even more so. Sherlock is smart, Mycroft is smarter. Sherlock is lonely, Mycroft is lonelier. Therefore, I hope Sherlolly shippers would understand why I chose Mollcroft as my ending for this story.
> 
> Every story is a labour of love and despite the dilemma, I truly enjoyed the process of writing 'The Starry Night'. Without you readers, I could never shamelessly call myself a writer so please accept my sincere thanks for your support and belief that I actually have the ability in creating something that is worth your valuable time to read. Thank you *hug hug*


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